Ashes to Ashes
by hyacinthian
Summary: Don't let them see the whites of your eyes. JoshDonna


He leans against a bar counter, hair tousled, tie undone, tumbler in hand. The lines in his face become more prominent, the circles under his eyes grow darker. If he thought about it, he couldn't assume the image of Pathetic Man any more. He's practically their spokesperson. He tries not to think about why he's so politically correct when his world is falling to pieces around him. He thinks of windows, of shattered glass, of the Twilight Zone. The three televisions in the bar are turned on, but he can't hear them. The people are chattering, the sound of friendship and romance, the sound of the televisions—it all fades into the background. It's just white noise—white, white noise that floats like dust but lingers like a plague. He pinches the bridge of his nose, massages his temples—this is his plague. The election is on TV. He tips his head back, lets the scotch slide down his throat with an easiness that he's unaccustomed to. He's used to fighting for something, anything. He almost wants to clench his esophageal muscles to fight the damn scotch. But it slides, slips down his throat like silk. And like a good group of Neanderthals, there is fire in its wake.

The bartender shoots him a weary glance when he calls for another one. "Bad day at work, pal?" _Oh, buddy,_ he thinks, _you have no goddamn idea._ But he doesn't say anything. Just waits for the bartender to refill it—he watches the amber liquid spill from the bottle, clashing against the smooth planes of the ice cubes, almost like a ballet. He thinks of grace and beauty, and everything that he's told himself he couldn't have. He tips his head back like it's a ceremony, waits for the liquid to careen into his mouth like the slew of false promises he's said over the years, waits for the ice to clink against his teeth, for the numbness that befits a soul that allows itself to feel no pain. Just dull it. Dull, dull, dull. "Hey, pal," the bartender says. "You one of those, uh, wine refinery types that take ten minutes to drink something?"

False promises echo through his head. False. Derived from the word "fallacy." Fallacious.

_If you were in an accident, I wouldn't stop for red lights. _

Promise. Pledge. Swear. He wonders if there's a greater sin than breaking promises. He thinks of five-year-olds, looking up with amazement at the sky, at the veil of stars, and thinking of them as the heavens. He thinks of five-year-olds, mouths agape and minds fresh, closing their eyes and wishing, thinks of 11:11, thinks of s'mores and innocence.

_Star light, star bright_

_First star I see tonight_

_I wish I may_

_I wish I might_

_Have this wish I wish tonight._

He must be staring off into space because soon, all he can see is a grubby hand waving in front of his face. He blinks once, twice, and then looks up into the worried eyes of the bartender. "Hey, pal, you all right?" He barely manages to fish out his wallet and toss a few bills on the counter. "You always get like this when you drink?"

He hates clichés. Hates these friendly bartender stereotypes, hates pretending that the relationship between him and a scruffy, gruff, stodgy forty-year-old bartender named Moe is anything other than monetary, anything other than something Adam Smith established along with mercantilism. He huffs out a soft laugh, but he only sounds bitter. He hates pretending, hates pretense. And that in itself is such a hypocritical thing to say that he wonders about his sanity. He really does. He's pretty much self-delusional.

The man on the next barstool taps him on the shoulder. He turns to face him, another suit. Well, he is in Washington. "So," the man chats genially. "Who do you think's going to win?"

Oh, he could argue this point right now. Could tell the man that he works for one of the candidates and that he really needs to have his guy win so that he can still be in a job. But he won't. He just looks into that excited face, sees a twelve-year-old boy's enthusiasm for democracy and freedom, for truth, justice, and the American Way (with all capitals because it needs to be important or it's trademarked or something; after all, it is America). So he just shakes his head, looks glum. "I have no clue." He's only slightly aware that he may have slurred that last part.

"You all right, buddy?"

He just doesn't want friends, doesn't want these strange acquaintance-friend-types that care for him when so many people he know don't anymore. Or maybe they do and he's just apathetic to the idea, to the concept at hand. Maybe he's just apathetic in general. He has no idea. He looks at the thirty-year-old man with the twelve-year-old enthusiasm and swallows his pride. He chews on his words, savors the bitter taste and texture of each one, and finally looks the man right in the eye. He even slaps the man once on the shoulder for good measure. "I'm great, thanks," he says. He tries not to choke on the saccharine sweetness of it.

Cheers erupt in the one corner when they call California. His cell phone buzzes in his pocket, vibrates against his leg. He thinks of when he was thirteen and Mrs. Sweeney's dog humped his leg, thinks of his utter embarrassment, thinks of so many things that seem like so long ago but just aren't. Thinks of so many monumental things that just aren't important to him anymore. His cell phone buzzes insistently in his pocket with a dull humming noise that reminds him of insects. Mosquitoes. Maybe gnats. Some weird aggravating insect that likes to bite, or maybe just fly into orifices that it doesn't belong. Like ears or eyes. _Sorry, buddy. They're already occupied._ The cell phone buzzes in his pocket.

He snaps it open with a viciousness he didn't think he ever possessed. "Yeah." The viciousness has drained him, and all that's left is a tired shell of a man. Maybe they're all mosquitoes. All they've been doing is draining him of blood. Well, the human body only has—what?—a handful of pints? And he's running out. He's slowly, steadily been running out. And what is he getting in return? West Nile. God, what a steal of a deal. He just wants this to be over. Casts an errant glance out the sliver of a window that he can find, wishes on the faintest glimmer of a star. He wants this to be over. He thinks of Roslyn, thinks of the blood that gushed through him, that spilled messily onto his hands with a stinging warmth that made him feel numb in his soul, thinks about the inner voice he heard that told him he was going to die, he was bound to die. He feels the blood gush again, feels it running over his hands, through the gaps in his fingers. "I'll be there." He snaps the phone shut. The bartender gives him a sad smile when he goes to leave. _What a fucking pathetic son-of-a-bitch you are, you fucking idiot,_ the smile says. Or maybe that's just him. Fuck you, he thinks back. He doesn't even know if he's talking to the bartender or to his own damn self.

CJ hugs him the moment he's through the door. She is tall and gangly, limbs long but slender, and he meekly tries to return the embrace. She grins, in a manic way that means she's ecstatic, extremely happy, highly unlikely to kill him. He tries to smile back, but it only comes out like a half-grimace, dopey-looking smile, something plastered onto the faces of people stuck doing children's television for years. Like that cartoon about the mentally-challenged beaver? He's not really sure. But CJ looks him over and laughs. Maybe she's under the impression that he's still intimidated by her height (which he still kind of is). She arches an eyebrow and he just smiles. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he says. "I'm fine."

Her eyebrow raises even higher, if that's even possible. "Is it possible that you are—Josh…" He hears anger begin to tinge her words a little, paints the edges like the twelve-year-olds that hang around the mall with gaudy, glittery painted flames on the bottoms of their flare jeans. "Josh, are you drunk?" He rolls his eyes and staggers towards Sam, towards someone he knows, except he knows everyone here, and they all know him, know him a little too well, and he can't take this, he doesn't need it. _I need a cigarette_, he thinks. The memories flood back to him. He thinks of his father sitting in the study with a legal dictionary, a tumbler of scotch, and a cigar—he smells the tobacco, smells the familiar smoke. He's longing for one.

Donna raises a bare foot in the background, props it up on the coffee table, crosses her ankles. When he sees her, his mouth falls open just a little, and he knows that CJ is secretly laughing at him. But she doesn't know the whole story. There's a story in his head, a parade, and there's just so much, too much. His eyes trace the path his hands want to take—her crossed ankles, long legs, slim waist…there are endless possibilities that he cannot pursue. It's almost like a mathematical possibility. He wonders if anyone in the office is good at math. He sees her legs, thinks of when she stole his French fries even when he told her not to—almost like childhood games on the playground set. He would pull her pigtails, she'd push him into the dirt. It's all a cycle, all repeated steps—they're kinetic, but it's too much motion for him. Maybe he should tell her that he gets motion sick. That sometimes, he'll have to sit down from all the dancing they're doing because all the spinning makes him hurl his lunch. He gets motion sick, he'll say. She looks in his eyes and recoils from the intensity. It's too much motion, he thinks. But that's not enough for her. She needs a doctor's note, needs a parent excuse form, needs—too much. She swallows—he sees the way her throat bobs slightly at the motion. "J—" She clears her throat and he knows that she's scattering her uneasiness to the wind in favor of the motion, always the motion. "Josh has a delicate system." Everyone laughs.

His life is a sitcom.

He thinks of Scooby Doo, thinks of the laugh track, thinks of danger-prone Daphne and all the little clichés that littered his television screen. June Cleaver. Father Knows Best, Leave it to Beaver—all those strange little bubbles of fifties suburban nuclear family life that he never actually knew. He thinks of the house that wasn't really a home, thinks of the popcorn maker. He sees the little kernels pop in his head, sees them blossom into fluffy white popped kernels from dead, brown, hard shells.

"Donna!"

Everyone laughs.

Even Leo smiles. He tries to remember the last time Leo smiled. It's hard to recall. Today is supposed to be a happy occasion. He remembers Monty Python, remembers the movie, remembers the hundreds of little sketches that he watched in college, that he loved. _This is supposed to be a happy occasion!_ He thinks of pink curtains, thinks of less memorable lines and scenes that people don't recall. He's less memorable. He'll only be remembered by the truly obsessed, by the true adorers. Or maybe by the people who were there. Like the Titanic. He is a sinking ship.

Donna casts him a look and he can't help but observe her as well, can't help but pick out her own flaws and contrast them with his own. Her dark circles are a little lighter than his, but there's something in her eyes that makes him cower. There's something in her eyes that's a little dim, a little dead, and he thinks about horror films and all the clichés about "dead eyes." He looks away, and he hears her laugh. A strange, bitter little creature that lingers in the corner of the room. Something in him flickers, something in him dies. He is a collection of oxymorons, contradictions. He grins a little too easily and she smirks a little too well. Bartlet for America, he thinks. They all have their parts to play. And Shakespeare, the damn Bard, what did he say? The world is but a stage? _Well, Bill,_ he thinks. _You're right. The world is a stage._ Donna pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and he thinks about romantic comedies. He unbuttons the top button of his dress shirt. _No one fucking ever gets off._ She smiles and he smiles back.

He walks over to the sofa where she's sitting, listens to the soft strains of music playing in the background. He thinks of the Doobie Brothers, and sits down at the end, one seat away from her. She stretches, and when she's finished, she sets her left hand down in the middle seat. His right hand snakes out to touch hers. He recoils from the touch, almost as if he'd been burnt. She slowly takes back her hand too, tosses it into her lap. She reaches for a flute of champagne with her right hand.

He thinks of Marcia Brady, refusing to wash her cheek because Davy Jones had kissed it.

"What were you drinking?"

There is silence.

"Josh?"

"Why do you want to know?"

She sighs. It's a sound that he's used to hearing, though he wishes that it weren't that way. Her sighs sound off in his sleep, in his dreams. They make him feel like a psycho. "Because I want to know." She pauses, and he hears the heavy sound of her breathing, sees her lungs contract and expand in his head. She licks her lips. And then, softer, almost like a softer note following the louder crescendo, "Because I care about you."

He laughs and he knows that it will hurt her. "You care." She mulls over her words with a pinched look on her face, like she's thinking about whether to slap him or talk to him. "Donna."

"Yes, Josh. I care."

"Scotch."

"What?" It seems so uncharacteristic of her. She's gotten so distracted by the secondary argument as to forget the topic of the first.

"The drink—it was scotch."

"Oh."

"Yeah," he laughs. "Oh." He wonders when he became so bitter. Sam walks in, settles between them, sits in the middle seat.

"Josh?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

He looks Sam in the eye, sees the raw concern and the pure friendship that he has with Sam. He takes a breath, reels his shoulders back, feels the tension retract with a mental accompaniment of clicking sounds. "Yeah, Sam. I'm fine." He wonders why he lies so much.

Somehow, they end up in his office, the three of them. Donna is sitting in front with her legs propped up on his desk, her ankles crossed. He mirrors her stance, and Sam sits in the third chair. They have a bottle of vodka between them. He grabs the neck of the bottle with a sudden violence, pulls it towards him, lets the clear liquid flow freely down his throat. He chokes and splutters at the volume, and rights the bottle. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and hands the bottle to Donna. "What happened to you, Josh?" Sam asks. "You look like hell." Josh is too drunk to notice how Sam's words are beginning to slur.

He thinks about his life (though he tries not to), thinks about all the important people in it, and, for some reason, he can't stop thinking about her. She'll be laughing it up while he takes an express trip to hell. He thinks about the tie, thinks about so many factors that went wrong that day. He sighs, just as Sam sets the bottle down. Picking it up, one thought runs through his head on a marquee. Mary motherfucking Marsh. The liquid dribbles down his chin a little but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about much anymore.

"What happened to you, Josh?" Sam tries again, but his speech is even less coherent now.

"I was trying to save my life," Josh tries, "but it didn't work." _Mary Marsh Mary Marsh Mary Mary Quite Contrary—_

Donna raises the vodka bottle in a mimicry. "Hear, hear," she says. She drinks greedily from the bottle. He looks at her eyes, falls into them, and he thinks of Nietzsche.

_Look long enough into the abyss, and the abyss looks into you._

_This is supposed to be a happy occasion._

He thinks of children linking hands, running around a mulberry bush or a maypole or whatever they run around these days.

_Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary_

_Went to Oxford and married a fairy_

_Now she works for the religious right_

_So she can attack Josh all day and night_

He hums softly when Donna wipes her mouth. Her lips are red, almost too red. Lipstick, maybe? Biting? He tries to look away, but like a black hole, it draws him in. Her lips will be his destruction.

_Lady—_

He hears Donna shout his name, but it becomes twisted, demented, like gnarled tree branches, it mutates into Joanie's scream of pain. So his sister screams. In his head, over and over again. But then, her scream mutates—her shriek becomes Holst. Mars. God of War.

He tries not to think of the subtext.

_Lady, the god—_

The sound of his blood pulsing in his veins become timpani drums in the orchestra, in the pit. He sees Joanie as the conductor, with her little baton and more talent in her pinky finger than he'll ever have (isn't that what she used to yell?) and her fluid movements. The drums become Jiffy Pop poppers and he's surrounded by popcorn. Pop Pop. Like his grandfather. Pop. Like the sound of gunshots. Popcorn and bullets and fires and screaming—it's all the same.

_Lady, the god you—_

Zoey and Charlie argue about the chili as he bleeds into his hands—searing, tepid blood the color of Tabasco. _Cumin? No, no, oregano._ And all he can think is fuck the dried herbs, fuck the chili—he's dying here. He's really and truly dying and no one will save him. And he can't save himself. He can never save himself.

_Lady, the god you pray to is too busy being indicted for tax fraud!_

Sometimes when he feels like the whole world is against him, snippets of that part of his life play through his mind. He feels the acidity of Bartlet's disappointment again, feels the heavy burden fall onto his shoulders like nothing, and like Sodom and Gomorrah, he is reduced to nothing, to feeling like nothing.

When Sam leaves, it is just Josh and Donna in his office, drunk, with a bottle of vodka. Clearly, only bad things can arise from this situation. She stretches, flails her legs a little.

"So," she says.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"We won California."

"Go us."

She toes off her shoes and settles her feet in his lap. He picks one up, rubbing slow circles across it with his thumb. He presses into the flesh, and her head falls back, lolls on her shoulders. She groans and he feels his resolve start to unravel, bit by bit. "Donna."

"Hm?"

"We should stop." But his fingers don't listen to him. They just press on, keep pressing, pushing her in all the right spots, and she can't resist him when he's being all sweet like this. And he can't resist her ever.

"Should we?"

"You know the answer to that."

"Do I?"

"Donna."

"Josh."

"This can't be—we can't be—there can't be an us."

"There's a lot of dashes in that sentence." She moves in closer, licks her lips on purpose this time, and he feels something pull at his heart. "There's a lot of speculation. Isn't the smart thing to do..." She pauses, tripping over her words. "Isn't it smart to just avoid that all together? Speculating?"

He moves closer, despite himself. She draws him in, reels him in, and a part of him thinks that maybe she's doing this on purpose. She is ruining him with not so much as a scuff mark on herself. The optimist in him, the idealist in him wants to think that she loves him, that she cares for him. He thinks that she's probably just using him. Maybe he's going too far. He always goes too far.

He thinks of Mary Marsh. And tries not to.

She closes the distance between them and kisses him. At first, it's a soft kiss, lips on lips, the briefest touch, caress. But then something explodes in him, and like a dying man who's been given one sip of water, he chases after it with an insatiable urgency. He pulls her against him, captures her bottom lip between his, slips his tongue between hers, and tries to give her a kiss she'll remember forever. Or something to that degree.

He needs her so badly.

His hands wind up to her hair and pull at the hair tie until a shower of blonde hair cascades down against his arms, his hands. He twines his fingers through her hair, feels its silkiness, tugs her head back slightly while he pays her neck the same attention he applied to her lips.

At his apartment, she is wanton and wanting. She groans, pulls, pushes, demands. Hooking a leg around his thigh, she forces him deeper and pants, "More, more, more." She wants him, he realizes, but he needs her. He couldn't think of living life without her. But he's always been a masochist, and he probably would. His hands splay across the open fields of alabaster skin, marked with the occasional dotting of freckles. She is his prayer. She is his salvation. She is his ruin. She is his demise.

"Donna, Donna, Donna," he chants, gripping her hips.

She is his destruction. She is his undoing.

"Josh," she replies breathily.

This is the end, the end of days; this is the apocalypse, the judgment.

He bites down on her shoulder and she digs her nails into his back. "I love you," he murmurs.

That next morning, when she gets dressed, he stands and looks for his boxers. "Josh?"

"Oh, Donna, I—"

"Don't worry about it."

"I meant it."

He reaches for her and kisses her passionately, his hands twining in her messy hair. This is their goodbye. This is their hope in a bleak world. He knows that she won't wait forever and she knows that he knows.

When she leaves, the door slides shut with a dull click. He has to show up to work and pretend nothing has happened, pretend that they're still just friends with subtext. This can never happen again. He feels like a romantic movie cliché.

He is a romantic movie cliché.

So he shrugs on his suit, like he shrugs on his role, and heads out the door like Willy Loman.

This is the brilliance of it all: beautiful, but blinding.


End file.
